


Hark! A Title

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Gen, I dunno what else to tag, ford also trying, ford being a dick, mentions of homeless stan, these broken bois will be the death of me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 14:39:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13250319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Ford finds an old photograph and remembers.





	Hark! A Title

**Author's Note:**

> For a friend on the Discord who eats angst like I drink coffee.

Ford had offered to help Stan pack up the shack. It was the least he could do, really, after the children had both given him such sour glares and icy silences. There were a few weeks more left of summer and Ford was loathe to spend them with the children and his brother angry, so he had extended the olive branch of peace and instead of humbly accepting it, Stan had grown red with rage and snarled: “shove it, Ford, I’ll be outta here soon enough.” He had slammed the office door in Ford’s face.

Ford decided to be the bigger man, digging through what used to be a room for specimens thirty years ago. Now it was filled with boxes upon boxes of photographs and knick knacks and the kind of useless junk one might find in any typical attic. Things beyond repair or redemption he placed in a box for the trash; everything else was placed aside to be sorted later.

He’s sneezing like crazy and his hands itch after an hour of sorting through old, forgotten things that Ford is growing more and more sure that Stan wouldn’t miss. He opens another box full of papers that have yellowed with time, pencil marks illegible. He makes to toss this box away with the rest when, flipping through the papers with a cursory kind of carelessness, he finds a tattered shoebox without a label. He opens it, expecting bills or receipts but instead finds newspaper clippings and letters. He pulls the first out, delicately.

“ LOCAL SCIENTIST RECEIVES GRANT FOR STUDY” it says and Ford recognizes a blurry picture of himself meeting with the financial committee for a university up state.  
“ YOUNGEST STUDENT TO GRADUATE WITH DOUBLE DOCTORATE” the clipping after it says and Ford realizes that he’s going backwards; each of his achievements is clipped and preserved here, in this shoebox. Ford smiles ruefully, remembering how much these little victories meant to him. Now they are childlike. The things he has seen; the worlds he has travelled. 

He looks and beneath the newspaper clippings are a pile of postcards and letters.

“ARCH YOU GLAD YOU CAME TO VISIT?” garish letters splash over an image of the St. Luis Arch. Ford frowns and turns it over:

“Hey, thanks for the clipping. Looks good! I’m doing great. -Stan”

Ford frowns, checks the postage and realizes each card was sent to Glass Shards Beach, New Jersey. Each one a thanks and assurance that Stan was doing well. Ford can’t help but scoff, knowing full well now that Stan had been a vagrant. Regardless, he’s careful to place the postcards with the newspaper clippings. No doubt Stan would want the memory of his escapades. 

The box is now nearly empty, just one photograph. 

“Prom, 196--” The full date is smudged and Ford feels his heart pick up as his gut clenches. He turns the photograph over and sees Stan and himself, Stan’s arm around his shoulders, pressing them close together, the colors in the photo are faded and they both look as if they’re wearing off white tuxedos instead of the pink and blue, both stained with punch. Stan had harassed the yearbook photographer into snapping a polaroid of them that Stan had held with glee.

“We gotta ditch the tuxes,” he’d said, giddy and conspiratory. 

“Stan, we have to return them.” Ford had cautioned, so young and pliant. 

“Nah, Ford, they’re ruined. Pops’ll kill us if he sees. It’ll be a secret. Just you, me, and this guy.” Stan wiggled the photograph. 

“Why did you get that picture, anyway?” 

“It’s our last prom, Sixer! After this it’s adventure on the high seas! Don’t wanna forget our humble roots.”

Ford feels a bittersweet smile on his face. He had forgotten. That night had always seemed so pointless to remember after Stan’s betrayal. Now, he wonders if Stan remembers.

His brother isn’t difficult to find, counting money in his office and humming to himself. Ford lets himself stare a moment, feeling fond and nostalgic.

“Ya need somethin’?” Stan’s rumbled question snaps Ford out of his musing, brings him to the present. Stan glares at him and the aggression is so at odds with the soft, teenager of Ford’s memories that for a moment Ford is wrong-footed. He shakes his head. “Then clear out, I got another tour to give in thirty.” He sits at his desk and roughly pulls open a binder. Ford clears his throat. “What?”

“I… found a picture I thought you might like.” Ford say, holding out the polaroid. Stan glares at him from behind the desk and Ford realizes that Stan will not get up to see what he has. He must go to Stan. With a sigh he takes the few steps, the office door swinging shut behind him. Stan finally takes that photo from him and frowns.

“The hell you find this?” He asks, flips the photo over and drops it on the table. 

“There was a box of clippings and postcards and this was at the bottom.” Ford grabs the picture from where Stan has irreverantly discarded it. 

“Ya were diggin’ through my stuff, Ford?” Stan scowls, furious, before shaking his head with a grunt. “Whatever, mosta this stuff’s gonna be yers anyway.” Stan glances at the picture.

“I had thought you might want to keep this.” Ford says, uneasy with Stan’s whiplash mood. Stan snorts derisively.

“I don’t do that momento crap,” he says.

“What was that box then?” Ford crosses his arms.

“I was young, Ford. Ma wanted me to have somethin’ o’ home.” Stan sighs, takes of his glasses to rub his eyes. 

“You kept them.” Ford points out and Stan looks at him, really looks at him. If Ford were a younger man, he’d squirm.

“Stanford,” Stan starts, face shuttering, growing steely. “Nothin’ in that box is mine. All o’ that was Ma’s.” Ford scowls.

“You just said--”

“Ma sent me plenty o’ yer accomplishments and, hell, Sixer, I was proud. But thing is, paper ain’t good fer anything when you got no cash and no gas. I burned ‘em, Ford.” Stan’s facade cracks, just a bit, just enough to let Ford see a shadow of a heartbroken young man burning his letters from home. “Didn’t do shit to keep me warm.” Stan says, eyes far away and Ford lets him have that moment, play out that memory until Stan shakes his head.

“This one didn’t burn.” Ford offers, looking down at the images of two happy, loving brothers. Stan gives him another pointed frown.

“Ford, that one ain’t mine.” He says. “I found it in the basement.” Ford frowns down at the picture.

“I don’t remember,” he confesses at last and Stan barks a laugh, bitter.

“It was thirty years ago, Ford.” Stan rises, pops his back. “Keep it. Hell, keep all of it. I’m not gonna need any of it soon.” Stan brushes past Ford and shifts seamlessly into Mr. Mystery. Ford looks down at the photograph he had evidently kept with him for a decade but forgotten. He plays the conversation over in his head, something feeling off, like fine cloth catching on rough calluses. The finality of Stan’s words makes him uneasy but he can’t pinpoint why. He can hear Stan laughing with his employees; hears the twins grumble at him when Stan puts them to work. 

“Mr. Pines, we’re running low on Mr. Mystery bob-heads! Do you want me to order more?” The gopher-like one, Soos, asks. Stan’s smile gets tight.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Don’t wanna waste the money. Now, go fix the toilet.” 

“Sure thing, Mr. Pines, dood!”

Ford watches, fingers starting to sweat on the polaroid. Ford watches the group of people flock and move around Stan, sniping affectionately at each other. Ford watches and realizes, with a painful throb, that he has forgotten what family feels like.  


End file.
